


One Last Dance

by Morgana



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saying good-bye is never easy</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Dance

"Believe this is our song, pet."   
  
She slips her hand into his, letting him lead her to the floor as the first gentle chords sound. His arms wrap about her, drawing her close, and she rests her head against his chest with a soft contented sigh. From the sidelines, several smiles appear as their friends watch the couple. Theirs has not been an easy journey, but Spike will be the first to say that every step was worth it.   
  
The vampire is still as strikingly handsome as ever, drawing more than his fair share of attention any time he attends these gatherings, but he has eyes only for the woman in his arms. She leans against him with perfect trust, the gesture catching at his heart as it always does. He doesn't know why she offers her love to him so freely; despite the time that has passed, he still sees the monster that she once feared, but she sees the man as well. He brushes a kiss over her temple and murmurs, "Have I told you how beautiful you are today, luv?"   
  
A gentle snort answers him. "No, and I'd have to hurt you if you did."   
  
"Most gorgeous creature in the room, you are." The light swat on his shoulder makes him chuckle, the sound vibrating against her ear like the purr that so often lulls her to sleep. "Course, the room's kinda small, so might have to extend that to you bein' the goddess of the known world..."   
  
"Spike!" The laughter in her tone clearly reflects her delight despite the pretense at shock, and he only smiles and holds her a little closer. She's so warm, so delicate and light in his arms that he has to keep looking down to be sure that she's still there. Her love has been his constant, the abiding star that has lit his world for years now, and although he tries hard not to think about it, they both know the day is coming when he will have to walk the world without it.   
  
As the song ends, he holds her for a few extra seconds, drawing their dance out as much as he can before he reluctantly eases his hold and bends to kiss her upturned lips. He takes her hand once more and leads her back to the table, giving the watchers a good-natured grin. "You lot enjoy the show, did you?"   
  
Laughter answers him and he holds the chair out for her then takes his own seat at her side. He reaches for her hand without thought, his thumb stroking over the plain gold band that adorns her finger. The smooth metal draws his eye and he looks down briefly before raising his eyes back to hers, sharing a smile before turning back to the conversation.   
  
"... hard to miss, but then a six foot tall, bright orange demon usually is, right?" He joins in the joking, but it isn't hard to see that his mind is elsewhere. Hazel eyes meet brown, exchanging a silent message, and when Angel rises from the table, it's with a quiet request for help in getting the next round of drinks.   
  
Spike's on his feet in seconds, following his sire over to the refreshment table where he takes over the duty of filling cups and arranging them on an available tray. A hand on his arm stops him and brings his attention back to his sire. "She's getting close, isn't she?"   
  
"Yeah." He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, forcing the words out anyway. "Can smell it on her if I try."   
  
"How long?"   
  
"Few months, maybe." He wants to rage at the unfairness of it, scream out in denial and make the universe turn back time, but what good would it do? They've talked about this and he's shed his tears in the privacy of her room, buried his head in her lap and begged her to stay with him, and now all there is to do is accept it.   
  
"I'm sorry, Spike." And he means it. One hand carefully closes around the leather-clad shoulder and it's allowed to linger for a few seconds before being shrugged off. That more than anything tells Angel how much his childe really needs the comfort and kind words.   
  
"Thanks." He picks up the tray and starts back to the group, but Angel stays by the punch bowl for a minute, watching him. His appearance hasn't changed since they first met up again in the halls of Sunnydale High - he's still beautiful in that way that only Spike can be: delicate, pretty even, but thoroughly male. He still wears leather and moves with the liquid grace of a predator even though he hasn't hunted in over 50 years. Angel envies him that easy swinging step more than ever these days.   
  
He looks down at his hands, comparing the loose skin, spotted with age and curled with rheumatism, to the long slender fingers and smooth white flesh of his childe. Spike alone has remained ageless, his form preserved at its peak, and Angel isn't sure if he hates him or pities him for that. The rest of them have suffered the ravages of time, watching hair thin and become first gray and then white, seeing skin sag and wrinkle, felt muscles lose strength and bones creak, but through it all they have had the consolation of knowing they were not alone.   
  
He wants to think of Spike as not being alone, either, but he knows that when the end comes, he will be. And Spike knows it too -there is a longing in his eyes when he looks at any of them lately, a yearning sadness that says more clearly than words that he realizes that his journey does not lead where theirs does. In the end, Spike will be alone, without wife, sire or friends to help and comfort him.   
  
Angel attempts to put the tug of worry and pity aside as he rejoins their friends. A raised eyebrow is answered with a brief shake of his head and his heart breaks for her pain. Giving Spike a nod when a glass is pressed into his hands, he waits for the vampire to take his seat again before proposing his toast. "To Buffy, who has raised the age limit on Slayers another year and shown us all what true beauty and grace are."   
  
A chorus of voices answers him, "To Buffy." They all raise their glasses and take a drink, and then the traditional round of toasts and jokes begins.   
  
"To Buffy, who taught me about the healing power of Ben & Jerry's and how to recognize a vampire by their fashion sense." Willow's smile is still as sweet as ever, her long hair falling in white waves to her waist. Sightless eyes are trained on the Slayer, the bright green clouded over with cataracts but still filled with love.   
  
"To Buff, who always laughed at my stupid jokes and still isn't afraid to be seen dancing with me." Xander reaches over to pat Buffy's free hand, the calloused carpenter's hand squeezing hers gently, a lifetime of caring and friendship expressed in a simple touch.   
  
"Oooh, me next! To Buffy, who didn't kill me no matter how many times she wanted and who finally gave me the brother I always wanted." Dawn's toast rouses chuckles from the others as they look fondly on the girl they'd all had a hand in raising.   
  
"To Buffy, the love of my eternal life and the sunshine in my soul. You've taught me what it is to be a man, showed me what I could be an' I'll always be grateful for that. I just wish -" the blond's voice falters, and when a small hand slips into his, he clears his throat and struggles on. "- that everyone could be as happy as we are."   
  
"Thank you all so much. You've made this the very best birthday I can remember." Buffy's smile is sad and her eyes fill with tears as she looks into the fathomless blue of her vampire. "I love you Spike. You've been my enemy, my ally, my friend, my beloved husband and lover... I'm going to miss you so much, baby." She breaks down sobbing with the last words, and Spike is quick to fall to his knees before her, drawing her carefully into his arms.   
  
Their friends look on, tears shining in all eyes and streaming down several cheeks. One by one, husbands take hold of wives and draw them out onto the dance floor, offering the couple their privacy while at the same time taking solace in each other. For now the shadow of death lies at another's door and while they dread her loss, they would be lying if they didn't admit to a small sense of relief that this is a bridge they don't have to cross yet. Not one of them would trade places with Spike, who can only watch as all he holds dear slips through his fingers a little more with each passing day.   
  
Spike's hands cup the thin cheeks, her tears wiped away with a careful sweep of his thumbs. "Shhhh, luv, don't cry. Please don't cry," he begs, his heart threatening to burst in his chest with every gasping sob. He's never been able to stand witnessing her pain, but before there was always something he could do - kill the demon that had broken her arm, threaten the weasely little boss that grabbed her ass every day at work, kiss the small strains and stresses of the day away when she arrived home. There had always been a way to fight the things that threatened their bond, a way to strike back and keep them together.   
  
That had all changed fourteen months ago when he had sat beside her in the doctor's office and heard the diagnosis they both feared: cancer. It had taken her mother and now it would take her from him, too. And all Spike can do is watch. He holds her as carefully as he can, but his fingers still leave dark bruises on her fragile skin. He touches her with the most reverent of caresses, but her hair still clings to his hand instead of her head. He never leaves her side unless ordered to by one of the nurses or Buffy herself, but he still can't stop the inevitable onslaught of the disease that is killing her cell by cell.   
  
She dreams of heaven lately, and waking up in her coffin all over again. She wakes with her breath caught in her throat and the smell of damp earth in her nostrils only to see the worried blue eyes that are never far from her bedside. She hates this more than she can say - hates being weak and tired and  _sick_  all the time, hates the way her friends and family and everyone but Spike look at her now, hates the unfairness of it all, so much that she wants to scream. The oldest Slayer ever will not die a noble death on the battlefield but is instead watching her life drip out through little tubes. She wishes now that she had let Spike turn her in her 30th year, or her 35th, or even her 40th, when she'd told him to stop bringing it up.   
  
And as unfair as it is for her, she knows it's far worse for Spike. Buffy will see her mother again, will dance and be strong once more, will return to the perfect love and happiness that is now only a faint whisper of a memory. But Spike will live out his days without her, without anyone to take his loneliness away, until at last he stops fighting and lets the oblivion take him. She doesn't fool herself into believing he will be allowed heaven - vampires, even souled ones who saved the world again and again, don't get heaven. If they're lucky they get the peace of oblivion. If they're unlucky, well... she doesn't like to think about that. And so she forces the tears back and gives him a watery smile, unable to take away any of his joy while she can still offer it to him. "Sorry, didn't mean to be all watery-Buffy there."   
  
"That's okay, pet. Just hate seein' you cry, 's all. Especially when -"   
  
"I know." That's all that she ever needs to say, because she does. Everything that he is feeling, all the rage and sorrow and dread, she is there for. He carefully lifts her in his arms and rises, intending to take her back to her room, but a light touch on his shoulder stops his movement. "Spike? One more dance?" When he hesitates, she pouts and adds, "Because it's my birthday?"   
  
He chuckles and turns to the floor instead. "Never could say no to you, even when I should. All right, one more, but then it's bedtime for you, love."   
  
She nods and wraps her arms around his neck, laying her head down with a sigh. He walks out among their friends, holding her as gently as though she were made of spun glass, doing little more than swaying with her in his arms. For a few moments, with the lights turned low and the soft music playing, the Slayer and vampire are at peace.   
  
When the song ends, he looks down to see that she has fallen asleep. Her warm breath plays lightly over his neck, and without a word to anyone, Spike carries her back to her room and puts her carefully to bed. He sinks down into the ever present chair and watches her sleep, the moonlight washing over her features the same way it did that first night in London, when they found each other all over again. She was so beautiful then, the pale color washing the gold from her hair and the peaches from her skin, leaving her a vision in stark blues and whites. And so far as he is concerned, nothing has changed - she is still the same glorious beauty now that she has always been.   
  
Spike lingers for several hours, leaving only as the first strands of dawn begin to tint the sky. Buffy likes the early morning light, has asked for her windows to be always open these past few weeks, and he will give her anything she wants if only she will stay a little while longer. So he presses a kiss to her temple and another to her lips and steals off to his adjoining room, for a few hours of sleep before her next chemo treatment.   
  
When the day nurse comes in to bring Buffy her breakfast, she finds her still and cool. She closes the blinds before going in to wake her husband, his own low body temperature making her wonder if somehow he had known and followed his wife. But Spike was not so fortunate. He is given a few minutes to say his good-byes, left alone with his beautiful Slayer at his request while the nurse seeks out a doctor and begins the process of making it all official.   
  
She lies in much the same position that he left her, lips curved in a small smile, as though she is merely drifting in some happy dream. A harsh sob tears itself from his throat at the realization that she is, indeed, in the happiest of dreams, but it is one from which she will not wake. Buffy will not open her eyes, will not sit up and welcome him with outstretched arms or call him to her side ever again. Just before the river of his grief can rush in to drown him, he hears a voice from the doorway. "Dad? They said to come right away, that Mom was -"   
  
"Yeah, she is." His words come slowly, each one rough and gritty, painful to say. A warm hand takes his and he allows himself to be led from the room, the first wave of despair fading into the welcome numbness of shock. He dares not look at his daughter, for he knows he will see her mother's hazel eyes bright with tears and the sight will kill him all over again. He sits in the waiting room while the 'arrangements' are made for someone to come get his love, while they prepare his dearest wife for the funeral home that has already been called.   
  
The next few days pass in a distant haze, until one night he is gently bullied into putting on his best suit and led out to the cemetery. The others are already waiting for him, their eyes red from the tears they have shed over the past few days. Spike wonders idly if crying helped, if they found a measure of peace in the release of their grief. He has been wrapped in a shield, the emotions that were always so close to the surface put away until all he knows is a strange distance. Katrina takes one of his hands, while Beth takes the other.   
  
He watches, dry-eyed and motionless as the preacher talks about Buffy, calls her a wonderful woman and a beloved wife and mother. But he didn't know her like Spike did, never saw her put her hand on her hip and scream for him to 'get your undead ass in here  _now_ , Spike!', doesn't have the memories of laughter and pillow fights. This stranger never held Buffy when she cried for the heaven she had lost or saw her awe when Katrina kicked her for the first time.   
  
One by one, the friends step forward and lay a white rose on the coffin, then say their good-byes. At last, only Spike, Katrina and Beth are left. He knows he can't stay, but he can't seem to force himself to leave, either, can't turn and walk away from the woman who has been his rock and his salvation. The girls hold tight to him, as though to keep him there with them, and he wants to tell them not to worry. Buffy made him promise to stay and he will do his best to keep his word to her.   
  
Carefully, he slips his hands free of those that cling to him, giving first his daughter and then his granddaughter a hug. Feeling the weight of every single one of his years, he approaches the coffin, reaching out to caress one of the roses as he tries to find words for her. "Wasn't ready for this," he says softly. "Thought we had more time an' I don't know what to do now. Guess I shouldn't complain; we had a good run. Longer than anyone thought, really. But it wasn't enough, wasn't nearly enough time -"   
  
He breaks down with the last few words and the girls are instantly there, warm arms wrapped around him, keeping him steady on his feet when all he wants to do is sink down onto the ground beside Buffy and wait for the sun to rise. But he promised, and the tears that wet the cloth on his shoulders tell him that he is not finished here yet. Spike can only draw them close and hold them as they all mourn the loss of the woman they loved, the incredible woman that was Buffy Summers.


End file.
